Inside Your Head
by butterflying
Summary: It always started rather suddenly. One minute you would be up to your ears in ideas and words and pictures and, rather often, some sort of chemical formula and in the next you would be fighting to breathe. Sherlock has panic attacks. Soon enough he starts to unravel..NOW FINISHED, SORRY FOR THE DELAY - please read/review!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello hello, this is my first stab at fanfiction since I don't know when, and my first for Sherlock. The idea's been flying around my head for a couple of days so eventually churned this out today - more to come, but in the mean time, your views etc would be appreciated :)**

**Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

It always started rather suddenly. One minute you would be up to your ears in ideas and words and pictures (and, rather often, some sort of chemical formula) and in the next you would be fighting to breathe. Your hands would shake, vision clouding, and soon enough it would only be an exceptional case of luck if you made it any walking distance without sinking into the floor in a bundle of panic and hitched breaths forced in and out and in.

You had been particularly lucky so far, though, in that you were yet to have an audience to any of these episodes. Well, if you don't count Mrs H, who had been boiling the kettle and tutting over the hydrochloric acid spilled on the kitchen floor while you fought to remain sane enough to throw back a snarky reply. You suppose that Mycroft has been a witness too, at some point, but either he has blocked out those un-pleasantries or had simply not noticed anything more that his brother's tight breathing as a sign of badly-controlled anger and frustration.

To be fair, that was often the case anyway. An easy mistake to make, and one you would be all too willing to crow about to Mycroft – beat you again, _brother_ – save that you would never dare bring up such a topic of conversation as your own weakness. Madness is a quiet killer.

And such a fact you discovered was all too accurate as time had passed, and more and more things seemed to trigger the episodes. It was getting harder to keep quiet, harder to stay sane. You should have known that the spectators would arrive all too soon.

Opening 'night' was a matinée, an inspection of some murder or another – you don't recall the details, which is a little worrying in itself – and it caught you off guard.

"Suicide?"

Lestrade shoots the idea across to J, who shakes his head, his Latex fingers probing gently behind the ears of the woman spreadeagled on the apartment floor. He's absorbed in his work, muttering possibilities as he traces the victim's jawline with an index finger, kneeling so his face is as close to the body as possible without kissing it. The image in your mind at that thought makes you want to wince, but instead you continue pacing before the dresser in the far corner of the bedroom.

_Vain, vain, vain so the makeup. Something about it but need more data why is she dead it's got to be something to do with the – oh._

"Don't move," you bark, and John blinks, half in the act of slipping off the gloves.

One eyebrow twitches upwards, and even Anderson and Donovan, who've been conspiring in the doorway, fall silent.

"Her makeup," you say shortly, by way of explanation. "You'll have to sterilise everything, Anderson, or better still – throw it all out."

They stare back at you, blank. You are frustrated that even John, who has been practically breathing all over –

"John, go and wash out your mouth."

He is about to protest, but you shake your head.

"The poison's in her powder, you idiots!"

John blinks, then understands. Even idiotic Donovan's eyes widen, and she wrenches open a bottle of water. You stride across, tug it out of her hands and fling its contents in John's direction. Before he has had the chance to react you have tugged the gloves from his hands, flung them on top of the body, and rinsed your own hands in the last few droplets.

"Was such a dramatic solution really necessary, Sherlock?" John splutters, wiping his eyes with the heels of his now-clean hands and clearing his throat.

"Any issues breathing in the next twelve hours and it'll be lead poisoning for you, for future medical reference. Doing you a favour, you know," you say, clapping a firm hand on his shoulder and pointedly ignoring his jibe.

"'Course it was," Anderson drawls, but you haven't got time for him.

"Better take off your own too, and that goes for you, Donovan – as much as I do love your company, Anderson, I'd rather you stay alive for the purposes of my criminal record."

"Freak," Donovan mutters, stripping off her own gloves and leaving for the bathroom next door.

You are about to comment for what must be the thousandth time on her lack of insulting creativity when you realise the doorway through which she has just left is somehow leaning rather alarmingly to one side. You frown and tilt your head, but it has righted itself in an instant.

"You right there?" Lestrade asks, looking thoroughly confused.

You don't bother answering, blinking hard and turning back to John, who has almost recovered.

"Coming?"

He surveys the body with vague disgust before nodding, ignoring your lack of apology. _Perhaps they are going out of fashion, those goddamn manners,_ you think to yourself, almost excitedly. The thought is immediately squashed by an all-too-persistent reminder from your conscience that John is just too used to you to bother being offended.

"Hey, hey, where are you off too?" Lestrade blusters, endeavouring to block you from the doorway.

"I haven't moved house since this morning, you know."

He is exasperated, and you are thoroughly enjoying rankling him. You're yet to tell them _whodunit_, so to speak. You would have replied immediately but for a sudden sensation that feels as if a man with at least the height and bulk of Mycroft has thrust his hand in between the ribs behind your heart and taken a firm hold of your sternum. You can't help the instinctive intake of breath, making the pain sharper still as you attempt to remain stoic.

"What are you frowning about? Sorry that we aren't all the mighty Sherlock with all the answers in his – "

You shake your head, realising what's going on. Brushing past him, you take the stairs three at a time down the double flight of stairs and make it to the front door before your legs give out and you slump onto the porch step. _Close call_, you cannot help thinking to yourself, watching with some unease the tiles between your shoes rippling unpleasantly as the panic rises.

No one else is around outside, at least not yet, but you're not willing to wait until they turn up before trying to get yourself together. You pull your phone from your coat pocket at begin to punch buttons rather mindlessly, now scrunching your eyes shut and concentrating on breathing.

_In and out and repeat, you idiot, it's not rocket science_.

You wonder vaguely if berating oneself mid-breath could be some sort of new and innovative scare/recovery tactic. Like the entirely irrational theory that giving someone a good scare will stop them from hiccoughing. You are so engrossed in the process of staying conscious – in and out – that it takes a good half-second longer than usual for you to register that someone is calling your name.

_They must be, let's see, halfway down from the poisoned room – three of them, so that'd be Anderson and Lestrade, most likely, then John lagging behind._

You reason that this is probably a little too cruel a portrait, but now the shaking has started and your phone slips from between your fingers, dammit, and suddenly you've tangled them through your hair. Well aware that no matter how hard you yank at the roots it will make no difference, thank you, but you haven't stopped – you can't – nor will you cease trying. _Suffocating?_ you consider with some horror and your breathing is certainly hitching and laboured.

"Sherlock?"

Your fingers twist into your hair and the fog is billowing around your eyes and between the few words you're managing to string into thoughts and maybe now would be a good time to try and escape into your Palace but you're staring at a forbidding padlock on its door to safety and that would happen now wouldn't it, and you might just spiral into madness now but –

"Sherlock?"

Damn, he's persistent.

"John," you manage quietly, "please shut up."

* * *

**A/N: And there you have it - that review button, you should type some things then click it. Please?**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Sorry this is a little rushed...hope you enjoy :)**

* * *

John is stunned into silence only for a second – meanwhile the panic is still rising into a veritable cacophony – before he repeats himself.

"Sherlock?"

You realise through the fog that, while he may be concerned, he has no proper idea of what is going on. Relief floods your system (in an albeit stymied fashion) as you catalogue the possible lies: fever, lack of sleep, lack of food – hmmm, you'd better not push that one, John's been harping on about sustenance a lot lately – migraine, ah –

"Headache," you manage, willing your fingers to unclasp, glancing up at him.

The brightness outside hadn't properly occurred to you on first staggering outside. With the post-storm drizzle now giving away to a decent eyeful of sun, you haven't got the self-control not to groan. You bury your face in your hands, still trying vainly to breathe.

"Sudden onset, was it?"

John sounds doubtful, but you ignore him. Lestrade and Anderson have made it down the stairs now, too, Anderson puffing loudly. You withdraw your mental comment about J's limp before recalling that you never said it aloud, but nevertheless you had been wrong, and it galls you. Something about the mistake seems to have flicked a switch, though, because the Palace padlock has come undone.

"That's weird," you say, frowning.

Aside from the odd tremor, your hands have stopped shaking, and breathing is requiring a less concerted effort. _Excellent. Breathing really _is_ boring._

"What is it?"

You're hard pushed to work out from tone of voice alone if John is angry. You look up, and he seems more concerned than anything else. Autistic tendencies aside, you think for once you might have read his emotional map correctly.

"'ve told you," you mutter.

Hoisting yourself onto your feet, you offer prayers to every deity coming to mind that you can stay standing.

* * *

"People _like_ to hear you're actually human, Sherlock!"

"No one likes hearing about someone's weaknesses," you scoff, even though you think his bravery in even considering the excuse is commendable.

"Tea?" you add hopefully, not looking at him.

He rolls his eyes and sets about filling the kettle, taking two mugs from the cupboard while he waits for the water to boil. You turn to contemplate the gutted rat on your desk from yesterday morning. Having returned from meeting Lestrade – John insisted you go explain the poisoning properly after your conduct yesterday _the aunt, of course the aunt, no one would have suspected her_ – you're both back at Baker Street. Predictably, you're bored again.

"Honestly, though, people do," the doctor says, handing you the first mug of tea and setting down his own on the coffee table with a loud _thunk_.

"Mrs Hudson will have your head if that leaves a mark," you remind him, not without some enthusiasm.

"And not yours?"

A raised eyebrow on your part, and a sigh on his.

"Disgusting, that rat," he explains, waving a hand in the direction of your 'experiment', "and I've seen a lot worse, Sherlock. She'll flip," he adds, rather fondly.

You ignore him and wonder when the chlorine had first begun to take effect on the small intestine. The experiment had been interrupted by Lestrade;s call about the powder-woman: "Blonde, mid-thirties I think. Anyway she's chalk white and very dead. Floor of her bedroom. Will you come?"

John pulls himself away from eyeing the rat, though with mild trepidation.

"Anyway, as much as the size of your ego doesn't need it, people admire you. They read the 'stupid blog' – " he makes the air-quotes awkwardly with his left hand, his right now engaged in holding his tea, " – as you call it, because – "

"Not an angel," you spit out, pretending to tune out.

You are trying to pry the decomposing rat from the edge of a draft of your latest monograph, An Investigation Into The Effects of Cadaver Haemoglobin Levels At Various Stages Post-Mortem, using the handle of the spoon with which John had stirred your tea.

" – you're clever and they're impressed," he continues loudly, speaking over the top of you.

You suppress the urge to laugh, as well as the strange squirming of your stomach. Whether or not you'll admit it, having someone impressed by your genius (and simultaneously not bitter about it) is and always will be fuel to your sense of achievement. _Your self-worth too, wouldn't you say?_ The voice in your head adds snidely. With an effort you pull yourself back to the present and your rambling housemate.

"When God forbid you should actually make a mistake – or, in this case, fail to remain quite so aloof for once in your life – people become excited by the simple fact that _you're one of them_."

_Don't say it_, your feeble conscience warns.

Too late. You slam the spoon against the desk with more force than necessary, and the metal scars to wooden surface.

"Normal people are nothing, that's an insult to my intelligence."

Cold. Collected and in control. Yes.

"Oh, that's right, I always forget the great Sherlock Holmes is above us all."

John is practically sneering and you realise you have offended him in turn.

"Oh don't be stupid, John. You're cleverer than most," you add, but your attempt to placate him has already backfired.

Standing, he strides from the room, leaving you beside his still-steaming cup of tea.

* * *

It is three days before you say another word. Well, you had sworn at the doorframe after stubbing your toe at some ungodly hour of the morning; J had threatened to knock you out with the butt of his revolver if you didn't stop scratching at your violin. Technicalities aside, it had been rather a quiet household in the lexical department. Chemistry and the violin had taken precedence in an effort to stifle that strange sense you were loath to identify as guilt.

Meanwhile, the attacks had struck twice more, reducing you to a shuddering mess - the first time you curled up on the couch around midnight (thank God J had slept well that night, or he might have found you), the lingering tremors keeping you awake until morning. It hardly compared to the second, though, tearing you awake from fever-dreams and all the while you fought the urge to yell, as tangled in the blankets as your cyclical anxiety.

You can no longer deny that it is becoming worse. Ignoring this, you continue in your usual veins of 'entertainment'. On the fourth day you text L in a particularly violent paroxysm of boredom, and spend the following hours scrolling mindlessly through your sent items. Wondering what on earth you had been thinking half the time, you begin deleting some of them, almost embarrassed by your own stupidity.

_What's seventeen divided by three, when working in base eight? – SH_

It occurs to you that your phone has been ringing unheeded over last few days. What with John still angry and your own stubborn silence, the messages and calls have been accumulating. Feebly you wonder if Lestrade has left you any interesting crimes to mull over.

You scroll through the inbox until you find your brother's reply:

_MH – Go to bed_

Interesting, you don't recall sending the initial message. You check the date, frown, and delete its uncomfortable association with the attack. The conversation appeared to have continued.

_Four seven twelve ninety-three seventeen eleven bats in the belfry – SH  
__I thought John was against your little habit, never mind that you insist on being clean – MH  
Locked – SH  
Sometimes I wonder, dear brother , I really do – MH_

The remaining messages you had sent are a mixture of letters and numbers, making little to no sense. You recall now when you must have sent them:

**_Close call_****, you cannot help thinking to yourself, watching with some unease the tiles between your shoes rippling unpleasantly as the panic rises…You pull your phone from your coat pocket at begin to punch buttons rather mindlessly…**

John finds you later in rather a similar state; lucid, but scratching at your violin and particularly concerned with the process of breathing.


	3. Chapter 3

_**EDITED A/N (Oct 16): SORRY SORRY SORRY things have been way too busy and this has not been a priority. I've got the majority of a fourth chapter up and running now, and my uni semester finishes at the end of this week. I'll get it done as soon as I can. So sorry!**_

**A/N: So sorry this has taken a while to be uploaded! Things have been very busy, but I've pulled this together. As always, reviews would be muchly appreciated. Constructive crit is welcomed, too. Hope you enjoy:)**

* * *

Though he had been introduced as a friend countless times, trusted with his flatmate's life and even received albeit-veiled compliments, John really did wonder if Sherlock's opinion of him was as high as he said. To be fair, all Sherlock really did was regularly wax lyrical upon his ability 'to see and yet not observe!' and generally call him an idiot. In comparing himself to the sociopath, John agreed he was no genius, and certainly saw that, given Sherlock's mental makeup regarding people skills (that is, none), it should not surprise him.

_Possibly childish – and definitely stupid – to think that Sherlock is capable of tact_, he tells himself, now striding away from 221B towards the nearest Tesco. _Just give it up, buy the milk and go back. No doubt he'll be distracted enough when you arrive home and you can either fumble through an apology, or ignore the whole thing and let it blow over._

Reaching the shop, he sends a quick text before making his way inside and down to the back corner where the selves are stacked with milk.

_Buying milk, do we need anything else? – JW_

_Where did I leave the chlorine? – SH_

He sighs, pulling two cartons from their precarious positions in the stack before replying. In the time it takes to walk back to the blasted self-serve machines, two more messages have arrived.

_Rooibos – SH_

_Threepointone4onefivenine2si xfivethr – SH_

John frowns as a third text appears.

_Milk. Yes. Sorry – SH_

He blinks. Sorry? He leaves the shop in such a hurry that one of the assistants runs after him for what must be near a hundred metres to give him his change.

_On my way. What's up? – JW_

Sherlock apologising? John will never cease to be amazed, but he's a feeling it won't bode well for his immediate return to Baker Street.

* * *

**Rewind: approx. 10 mins.**

_Hungry._

It takes you a while to register this feeling. Having become accustomed to ignoring the day-to-day requirements of being a human being, eating is rather a strange pass-time.

_Waste of time_, you dare to think, but you're swaying slightly on your feet as you cross the sitting room and sink into a rickety kitchen chair. You frown at the fridge, wondering if its contents are edible. When your eyes are met with the exposed left side of a man's face and a mouldy loaf of bread, you swallow hard and slam its doors shut almost as quickly as you opened them. You've lost your appetite again.

Strange, your stomach isn't usually bothered by that sort of thing, and yet nausea is a faint nagging sensation in your gut.

You make it back to the couch and slump down onto the Union Jack. _Intersection of lines at a single point_.

You blink.

_Unnecessary observation; delete that, you idiot._

And you are suddenly gasping and choking, half-falling into the couch cushions with your fingers scrabbling to your throat. The buttons of your shirt prove a struggle, but you manage to undo them, tearing one off in the process. You are acutely aware of the _clack_ing sound it makes as it falls and hits the floor, then rolls away to rest somewhere near the doorway.

_Don't no no don't please no just shut up please no shut up_ but the voice goes on and on. _You. Are. Nothing._

There is a faint rattling noise somewhere, coinciding with your attempts to breathe. The air, you realise, is making the noise, hoarsely escaping and re-entering your lungs. Your breath catches, and you retch slightly.

"John," you manage to force out, disgusted by the shaking in your voice, but he is not here.

It continues. Minutes pass, and in several of them you fight your stomach for control. The air moves sluggishly. _Go on there's nothing worthwhile here anyway just no please PLEASE no go away shut up I don't understand – _

You somehow manage to entertain the notion that this – a failure to comprehend – is the root of your problem, and begging has never been something you've enjoyed.

**Ding!**

_Buying milk, do we need anything else? – JW_

Your fingers scrabble over the keyboard in response but you've no idea what they're telling him.

_In and out and in, come _on_, Sherlock._

It has come to the point of insanity. You're not sure how much longer you can take these episodes on your own. It occurs to you, as if for the first time, that your flatmate is medically trained. You send a final message and curl yourself into a ball on the couch. You only retch once more, cupping a loose hand over your mouth in case your stomach really objects. Once you are certain the nausea has passed you tug the violin from its case and begin to play.

* * *

"Let's eat," you say brusquely, tossing the violin and bow down beside the Union Jack as John _clunks_ upstairs and into the living room.

"S-Sorry?"

You frown.

_Always so hungry, so keen to eat, even forcing _me_ to eat, and now-_

"You know, where you put food in your mouth and chew and swallow and medically-speaking it's rather good for you?"

John rolls his eyes, dumping the plastic bag from Tesco's on the kitchen table. It is a mark of the time he has spent in Baker Street that he does not flinch when putting down a carton of milk between three kidneys soaking in chlorine (an extension of the rat's earlier demise, but the kidneys are human) and a vial of what appears to be urine. In truth it's a combination of bile and sulphur, but he doesn't need to know that.

"Not confused about the question, just about why you of all people are asking. You never eat," John adds, verging on accusation.

You sniff, not deeming an answer to be necessary.

"Food," you repeat, unfolding yourself from the couch.

You are determined to avoid any suspicion from John, striding across into the kitchen with more confidence that you feel. The room is swaying ever so slightly as you tug open the fridge and stare into it rather absently.

"Casserole," you manage between carefully-controlled breaths. "That alright?"

"You're cooking?" John asks dubiously.

"As far as I'm aware, it's not yet been made a crime."

He mutters something that sounds distinctly like 'poison'.

"Where do saucepans live in this kitchen?"

"Bottom drawer. Under the stove," John adds, throwing himself down into an armchair.

You set about adding various items to the pan, handling a kitchen knife with less accuracy that you'd care to admit. J is soon immersed in the newspaper, so the sharp intake of breath upon nicking your hand in the blade goes unnoticed for now, and generally, you think, you are concocting a successful meal.

"Sherlock," John says suddenly, just as you are taking a proper look at the cut on your hand.

"Hmm?"

You hide the blood behind your back, clenching the offending hand into a fist and turning to face him. The casserole is bubbling happily.

"Has your headache been going on this whole time?"

"What do you mean?" you snap back, turning back to the kitchen and opening the pantry door.

"From the other day - you've been on edge since. Sudden onsets don't tend to stick around that long; it's only migraines last for a longer period. It wasn't a migraine, was it?"

He looks almost disconcerted at the thought, as if he had missed an important detail that has become suddenly vital. You know the feeling all too well.

"No, the headache was gone by the time we got back here after that case," you lie hastily.

"Well, then, what's up?"

"Hungry," you say dismissively, stirring the stewing meat and eyeing the blood on your other hand with mild interest.

You know John has rolled his eyes before answering.

"Nope, definitely something more than that going – "

He stops, having now shifted in his chair to look at you.

" – what've you done?"

"Knife's sharp," you mutter, and it suddenly occurs to you just how much blood has come seeping out from the cut. "Oh," you add, a little belatedly, dropping the serving spoon with which you've been stirring the casserole.

"Under the tap for a bit," John says swiftly, hoisting himself from the chair and crossing the room.

Before you can do much else he has steered you to the sink and thrust your hand beneath the tap. The cold water rushes lovingly over your skin, and it is only now you register how much it had been hurting.

"Stay there," he says firmly, before striding out of the room.

"It's fine," you say belatedly, but you stay where you are.

You can hear him rummaging about upstairs – looking for his medical kit, no doubt – as the cold water does its job. Your hand is becoming numb. Admiring the simple effect of temperature, you take your hand out from under the tap, upon which it begins to throb again.

_Oh,_ you think suddenly, as the pain flares.

The blood loss combined with your earlier hyperventilation is starting to show. Swallowing hard, you turn off the tap and shakily make your way across to your armchair, sinking into it. The room is still spinning slightly when John reappears.

"Over here," you say quietly, as he frowns into the empty kitchen.

He is wrapping your hand in gauze before you can protest.

"Dizzy," you murmur, trying to pull away without success.

"Look at me," he says clearly.

You frown, but do as he says. Mycroft would be having a field day behind the cameras, you were sure.

"Christ," says John, wide-eyed.

* * *

**A/N: Again, sorry for the delay - hope you enjoy:)**


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm so so very sorry about the ridiculous delay for this chapter - finished now! Things have been unbelievably busy but here's the fourth and final installment. Hope you enjoy, and please please R&R :)**  
**~butterflying**

* * *

He is still trying to pull his hand out of John's grip and the doctor is finding it difficult to tie off the ends of the gauze.

"Where would you like me to start? A general medical overview, or do you want to just tell me yourself?" John forces out from gritted teeth, succeeding in wrapping the cut.

He stands, hands clasped in the small of his back. Sherlock's pupils are dark pinpricks against the coloured irises, flitting restlessly from John's face to his own cut hand to all around the flat.

"I – what?"

The detective is searching for words, a rare occurrence.

"See?" John says drily.

Sherlock glares at him for a moment, then –

"Nothing," he manages quietly.

He curls himself into a ball, somehow folding himself into the small space the armchair is providing. John laughs, incredulous, and strides into the kitchen to check on the casserole which is now belching steam from the pot.

"I have finally found something the great Sherlock Holmes can't do," he calls back over his shoulder.

Sherlock grunts.

"Lying," John clarifies, rather defiant, as he spoons the redeemed casserole onto two plates. "You're hopeless."

"I _know_," Sherlock snarls rather suddenly, then coughs.

John frowns, staring down at the plates, then turns on his heel to walk back into their sitting room.

"Oh for heaven's sake, Sher–"

The world's only consulting detective has slipped from his chair onto the floor, his back against one of its arms. His hands are clawed, scratching against each other and he is staring wide-eyed at – apparently – nothing. He appears to have forgotten about the cut on his hand. John freezes in the doorway, his mind searching frantically for the catalyst to whatever the hell is wrong with him. He is coming up blank.

"Sherlock," he says again, rather forcefully.

"John," his friend replies automatically, then blinks and looks across at him. "John," he says again, and it is almost a question.

"Care to explain?"

"What?" Sherlock says coldly.

He hoists himself up from the floor and frowns at his injured hand. John resists the urge to roll his eyes.

"Hurts," he adds again, swaying slightly as he straightens up and wanders into the kitchen.

John cannot work out why his friend sounds short of breath.

"Hopeless," Sherlock adds, very quietly, as he takes up one of the plates from the kitchen bench.

* * *

You are constantly amazed at people's stupidity at regular intervals, but John is taking human incapacity to a new level. You would laugh but breathing is a struggle. The casserole is burnt and you are staring vaguely down at the plate in your hand. Your other one is throbbing but all you can really hear over the cacophony of observations is _hopeless hopeless hopeless_ and you're not quite sure if John will murder you for doing what you are about to do.

_Clunk_ and the plate is on the kitchen floor, helped by more than a healthy dose of non-gravity force. You bite back a curse as John yelps and casserole oozes over the linoleum. Great invention, that product, perfect for impersonating a lab floor, a 'home away from home', so to speak.

"Sherlock? John?"

Mrs Hudson, the Queen of both England and of astounding bad timing, pokes her head around their doorway from the stairwell.

"Dinner's on the floor, Mrs Hudson, nothing more," John says wearily.

"Sherlock, dear, are you alright? Looking a bit peaky if you ask me, better keep an eye on him, John –"

"I'll be doing very much fine on my own," you spit out, but the room has started to wilt to the right.

Frowning, you realise you've forgotten to breathe and the chorus is louder – _HOPELESS, HOPELESS_ – and perhaps it would be better to just acknowledge the damn –

"Panic," you manage in a low voice, before staggering into the kitchen doorframe with a _crack_, your skull colliding with the join of brick and timber.

Mrs Hudson lets out a slight scream. You slide down onto the carpet, hands shaking, the cut throbbing mercilessly.

"You're a doctor, what's going on?" she squeaks at John.

"Nothing – to do," you manage between careful breaths.

"Breathing's a good start, though."

"Shut up," you snap, but John's right, of course.

A glass of water is being forced into your hands but you can't hold it still, so the edge is being forced against your lip. You would like to swear and storm out of the place but you aren't quite sure if you're capable of standing, never mind cursing, and it seems like an awfully teenage reaction. Mycroft would be proud, but in the mean time you have gulped down the water like a starved child.

It takes at least ten minutes, by your reckoning, for you to register that you are still slumped in the corner of the living room. John is crouching beside you, rather determinedly not staring at you, though it's evident he's trying to watch you in his periphery. An empty glass dangles from his fingers.

"So, wasn't a headache, was it?"

"Shut up," you say again, sitting up against the wall and scrubbing at your eyes, trying to clear them.

"Why'd you say it, then?"

_Hopeless_, but it is a little quieter than it was, and less oppressive. You manage a dry chuckle.

"Nature of the beast," you say shortly.

He doesn't push for details. PTSD is the likely reason and you're not going there. Emotions are difficult.

"Bit not good," he agrees, standing up.

Mrs Hudson has disappeared back to her own flat, not without first tidying your mess from the kitchen floor. You stare at simple unassuming _idiotic_ John, who, it appears, has retrieved the second plate of casserole.

"Burnt," you warn him, but he appears not to care.

"We aren't all good at everything, Sherlock. I certainly didn't expect culinary expertise from you, even if you understand the chemistry behind it."

_Fair point_, you note to yourself before realising what the hell you've just done – agreed with John. When you roll your eyes he chuckles and shovels down more of the casserole, leaning against the kitchen bench.

"It's not that bad," he adds.

"I'm flattered," you snip back sardonically, but you are pleased. "Carcinogenic, probably, with all that carbon in it. As a qualified doctor you shouldn't encourage that sort of attitude."

"As a qualified idiot you shouldn't give me advice – go dissolve another rat or something."

"You'll do nothing of the sort," calls your housekeeper-convinced-she's-only-a-landlady from the hallway.

"Dissolving was the wrong verb, Mrs Hudson, don't worry at all," you murmur, pulling yourself from your seat on the floor.

"I think there's some leftover Chinese, Sherlock, so you didn't have to cook – have that for your dinner, if you're still hungry," John says over the top of your mumbling.

His fork is scraping loudly against the plate behind you as you open the fridge for the third time today.

"Oh shut up," you say, scowling over your shoulder at him.

"Touchy, touchy," he grumbles, but puts the plate down behind him.

You can't see any of the clear containers in which the fried rice usually lives after John finishes his lemon chicken and doesn't leave room for it. The shelves are all melding together in your vision. It is quite sickening. Pointedly ignoring the crisper drawer, from which the half-face is still staring, you glare for another moment or two into the fridge before slamming it closed. You stride into the sitting room and throw yourself into your chair, tapping your fingers against the arms.

"Dinner?" John reminds you.

You press your lips together and ignore him. Your stomach gurgles just to spite you, and your flatmate folds his arms from his place beside the kitchen bench.

"Sherlock," he warns.

"Shut. Up."

"Not happening. What's wrong with the Chinese?"

He turns and pulls the offending box of rice from between the jam and the jar of eyeballs that has relocated to the fridge since Lestrade's 'invasion' back when they were new to Baker Street. Why you know that you aren't sure aside from the fact that the eyeballs haven't moved and the butter never goes anywhere else. You can barely distinguish the fridge door from the kitchen wall beside it.

"Nothing," you say but you're still tapping your fingers.

John's outline is still blurry, and so is the chair and the fireplace and the bloody Chinese food container and the kitchen doorway and –

"Sherlock?"

"Couldn't see it," you mutter.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing."

"Liar," John says as he puts the container back in the fridge.

"You say that like it's a new thing – no deduction brownie points for that one, I'm afraid, John."

The Union Jack pillow is swimming eerily in your periphery.

"_Damn _you," you tell it, before resorting to much more colourful language.

"What the _hell_ is going on, Sherlock?"

John has stopped joking. You look over at what of his expression you can make out, which is very little.

"Can't see you properly."

He raises an eyebrow, or at least you think he does, before going back to the sink and filling another glass with water. Well, you can hear the tap and the water and the glass _clunk_ing against the stainless steel. You close your eyes, leaning back into the couch. Its springs creak.

"Shut up," you say again.

"_Drink_ up," John's voice corrects you from your left.

You accept the glass of water and down in before your shaking can get bad enough to prevent you from holding it. The cut on your hand is twinging again.

"Do you take anything for any of this?"

John's voice is quiet. You close your eyes again and massage your temples as you answer.

"Not anymore."

"Illegal?"

"Mm."

"Thought about any alternatives?"

"Wouldn't be as good," you say, and you know he knows as well as you that it's true.

The springs groan again as you feel him stand up again, but he doesn't move. You look up at him.

"Don't have to lie about it," he says, not looking at you.

You don't reply, closing your eyes once more, and he takes the glass back into the kitchen without saying anything more. Five minutes later he has settled into his chair with a cup of tea and yesterday's paper, leaving a cup beside the couch on the coffee table for you. You are sure he isn't paying attention to you anymore.

"Thank you."


End file.
